From the book
1Stone Barrington made it from his bed to his desk by ten AM, after something of a struggle with jet lag. Granted, the three-hour time change between Los Angeles and New York was not a killer, but it mattered. As soon as he sat down his intercom buzzed.
“Yes?” he said to his secretary, Joan Robertson.
“You have a visitor,” she said, “name of John Fratelli. Says he’s a friend of Eduardo.”
“Send him in,” Stone said. Any friend of Eduardo Bianci’s was a friend of his.
A vision of the mid-to-late twentieth century appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Barrington? May I come in?”
“Of course,” Stone said, rising to greet his visitor, who was wearing a boxy, light gray flannel suit, a starched white shirt, and what appeared to be a clip-on bow tie. He was carrying a salesman’s suitcase and a porkpie hat and had a haircut that had probably been accomplished entirely with electric clippers—short sides and a Brylcreemed top. “Come in and have a seat, Mr. Fratelli.”
“Thank you,” the man replied. “It’s nice of you to see me.” This was delivered in what appeared to be an old-fashioned Brooklyn accent, the likes of which had not been heard for many years from a man as young as Fratelli, who appeared to be no older than fifty. He came in and took the proffered chair across the desk and set down the suitcase.
“How may I help you?” Stone said, hoping the man was not a salesman.
Fratelli stood again, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a wad of bills; he peeled off five hundreds and placed them carefully on Stone’s desk.
“All right,” Stone said, “you’ve paid for a consultation and bought yourself some attorney-client confidentiality.”
“Good,” Fratelli said, sitting down again.
“I should inform you, though, that if you confess to a crime and I end up representing you in court, I will not be able to call you to the stand to testify on your own behalf.”
“Why not?” Fratelli inquired.
“Because I cannot call a witness to the stand who I know will lie under oath.”
“I understand,” Fratelli said. “That’s reasonable, I guess.”
“How is Mr. Bianci?” Stone asked, by way of getting the man to relax.
“Who?”
“Did you not tell my secretary that Eduardo had sent you to me?”
“Oh, I meant Eduardo Buono.”
“Not Bianci?”
“No, Buono.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Stone said.
“Well, he knows you.”
“How does he know me?”
“He read an article about you in a magazine—Vanity Fair.”
That magazine had published an excerpt from a book about Stone’s late wife, Arrington. “I’m afraid I—”
“Eduardo says you’re a standup guy.”
“Well, as kind a characterization as that may be—”
“Eduardo and I shared a living space for twenty-two years.”
“I’m happy for you both, but that still doesn’t—”
“Eduardo was a very smart man, even if he did get caught.”
“Ahhhh,” Stone said. Now he understood. “Where did you do your time, Mr. Fratelli?”
“Sing Sing.”
“And when did you get out?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“How long were you...